Guest of 13

[amichan]

 This goes between parts of the other two sections as shown: 

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“Stay still! Do you want to bleed everywhere?”

“Where is this? You aren't the same!” Have to go. Have to go. Not safe. Not them. Not the same. Pop thumb. Then back in place. Grab. Throw over bed into other one, “Stay off me! You're not right!” I can undo the legs get the other hand out. There'll be more. Guards, but things fade. Unexpected.

“You didn't expect measures? Have fun with that...we'll get the blood anyway.”

#%#%#%#%#%#

Thirteen. Seven. What do you know about Seven? Thirteen doesn't exist.

It's a trick. It's a trick. She's lying. She's tricking me.

I have to get out.

 

Claws come out of the dark, climbing up onto the bed.

Glowing eyes and a mouth spitting roaches.

Then nothing. Just darkness.

 

I can hear it all around, chattering, clicking, nattering, whispering, everything, too much, overlapping, chittering, hissing, buzzing, bustling, fizzing and it won't go away. It won't go away. It's inside my skin and my teeth and crawling up my nose and down my throat. Mutt. Snow. It's inside my chest and my stomach. It's bleeding out all over. I feel hot and wet and cold and everything is heavy and yet I'm tied down so I don't float away. It doesn't make sense and there's so much noise.

 

Moving shadows flicking.

 

Prods and pokes. Familiar. I understand it.

 

No words or questions. Just the buzz and clicking. Everything blurs. Reds and blues. Brights and shadows. Itching.

 

Where is Seven? What is Thirteen? Snow? Caesar? Are you upset? Make it quiet. Destroy. Get rid of her. Where is the mutt? It's icy and my brain is melting. I feel my ears boring through my skull. Out. Out. Out.

 

I must get out.

#%#%#%#%#%#

Mouth is thick. Everything is scratchy.

The door has opened and someone is coming in with something on wheels. Things chink together. They wear gray, all gray, long sleeves, long pants, short red hair. Letters on their shirt I can't read. Their movements are stiff.

“Good morning,” They say carefully, brushing down the front of their clothes, “You may not remember where you are. This is District 13. We rescued you from the Capitol,” the words seem clunky, “I brought you food,” They point to the tray, “Attendants will come in to help you eat,” They slap their feet together, spin and leave the room.

Two other people come in now. One is the same one I've seen each time so far. The other is different again and looks uneasy with their red hair and pale skin. Does no one see sun?

“Are we going to behave today?” The known one asks.

I don't say anything. I just look at him.

“We-we have water and porridge for you,” the true red head says. Both of them with the gray overalls and the blue pinafores. It's so strange after the way everyone looked in the other place. The Capitol. Right, this is not the Capitol. This is District 13. That sounds odd. Why does that sound odd?

“We're not going to remove the restraints. Until we know you can be trusted to remain calm. So, Brenda will feed you,” he says.

Brenda does not look entirely happy with this arrangement but picks up the bowl and spoon and brings it to me after the other has pressed things and the bed has changed so that I'm in a sitting position. I can see the room now. It's small. There is a glass panel in front of me which has a curtain on the outside, fully drawn and other panels on this side that are partly open. Cabinets below this panel. A cupboard on this side. The door behind me to the right that's where they always come from but I can't turn enough to see all of it now or when lying down.

The porridge is a familiar consistency but it's taste is different. It seems flat. I eat though. But I can't eat much of it before I feel sick. He makes notes on his thing. Brenda is told to give me water and then they leave.

Well, I'm sitting up now. I can move a little easier my wrists in circles things pop and crackle as I do so. Same with my right ankle, my right knee, all my joints I can't get things to feel smooth; but then nothing is smooth in my head so why should my body be different?

Thirteen. Thirteen. Twelve. I remember it. I'm in Thirteen. I'm from Twelve. Why am I in Thirteen if I'm from Twelve? Thirteen. That's what doesn't fit.

My name is Peeta Mellark.

I'm from District Twelve.

I remember it. I remember saying it. In the dark to myself.

I remember screams and shrieks and banging noises.

The mutt pulling pieces out of my legs and stabbing me with them.

I need to be clearer.

I need to get it out, but it's all buzzing and chittering and leaves crackling and popping.

I'm from District Twelve.

I am a guest of the Capitol.

Remember who the real enemy is.

But this is not the Capitol.

Have I really been rescued?

 

#%#%#%#%#%#

 

He's back again. The one who has been here each time. The one who comes in with every group. His name is Keller I am told when I demand it. I have been told this before, I am told. Repetition of things irritates Keller. Repetition of things irritates me, like the clacking of the pen thing on the plastic thing he carries it drums through my ear and coils around my eyes so that when he scrapes his chair across the floor I want to crack his neck but I can't get out.

“How are we feeling today, Peeta?”

“Constricted.”

“Do you remember where you are?”

In a room chained to a bed, “District Thirteen.”

“Good.”

“Thirteen was destroyed. How am I in Thirteen and not in Twelve?”

“Everyone who survived the fire bombing of Twelve is living here in Thirteen now and so are you and the others we rescued from the Capitol.”

I see her standing in the rubble. Laughing. It's a trick. Skulls cracking under feet. Laughing as planes drop bombs from the sky. Another trick. She called them in. Or is this not Thirteen? What are they doing?

 

“Stop looking at me like that,” he says.